


This, Again?

by MarisFerasi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angelo's Restaurant, Bisexual John, Consensual, First Meeting, Gay Sherlock, Groundhog Day, M/M, move in day, timeloop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9667694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarisFerasi/pseuds/MarisFerasi
Summary: Sherlock opens that blasted light-up matchbox and gets transported to John's move-in day, 2010.pining, requited love, etc. Schmoop.





	

**Author's Note:**

> god, get this away from me. it's 10 pages of pining and porn.   
> enjoy; tell me.

Sherlock blinked slow in the diffuse morning light. He patted the pillow next to him, making sure (as he did most mornings) that it was his own bed he was waking up in, and not a drug den or some dungeon, still abroad. He already felt _off_ and he hadn’t even sat up yet. The bed smelled…generic, _like a hotel’s would_.

Rolling over and propping up on his elbow, he patted the empty space for his mobile phone and paused. His head was killing him; he could barely stand the light coming in his window. Groaning in frustration, he stumbled up and over to clamp the curtain panels closed. When he made it back to the bed, he found _a_ mobile phone. Not _his_ mobile, though. This iPhone was at least…four years old? His was the newest model, so whose was this?

 _What_?

He thumbed it on and typed in a PIN anyway, and it came up instantly. The generic stock background image blared at him; Christ this was weird, but his headache was weirder; behind the eyes, sharp and demanding. Like he’d drunk too much, or flown a long distance without his customary fistful of antiemetics. He tugged on his blue dressing gown and stomped toward the kitchen to brew some coffee. Maybe that would quiet the noise a bit.

First stop: the loo. He had to piss something fierce; again, like he’d been up drinking all night! The detective flipped the lid up and dug his cock out of his soft bottoms, angling to piss when he again felt something… _off_. Looking down, he noticed that the long, thin scar that ran from hip to hip, skimming the top root of his cock, was gone. Eyebrows raised, Sherlock forgot about his piss for a moment as he lifted his shirt and looked over his torso.

He had _no scars_ from his two years in Europe.

That was… _beyond impossible_. He’d been _covered_ , just the night before! Just as he had for the six months since his return!  He ripped off his dressing gown and shirt, throwing them to the floor as he turned to survey his back. Gone were the thick ropes from a cruel whip, as were the two missing ribs from getting beaten with that lead pipe when Mycroft had intervened. His side was visibly fuller than it had been last night. As he palpated the returned ribs and turned to face the mirror again, he could see no burn-marks, no healed but still-pink welts on his sides. His pectorals were clear of the thin blade-lines he’d endured. His face was unlined from age and stress, eyes clear of horrors no man should ever see.

It was as if he’d regressed several years overnight. His hair was even thicker and curlier than it had been when he went to sleep!

Before his musing could go much further, his full bladder became known again and he finished his piss, more confused than ever.  He decided that coffee had been a good idea. He flushed and opened the hall door to make his way to the kitchen at last.

Instead, Sherlock stopped at the sight before him. The flat was _completely filled_ with moving boxes. _I…what?! Is John moving back…?_ There was no sound coming from upstairs, but he could be out, or at the surgery already.

He thumbed over the phone screen again and tapped “contacts.” After a fair amount of scrolling, pausing in disbelief, and re-scrolling, the truth was there before him; there was no John Watson in his contacts list.

_What. The. Fuck._

Sherlock paced, hands in his hair and muttering until the sound eventually drove Mrs. Hudson upstairs. He had stopped, frozen in place, by the time she budged in the door with her hip, hands full.

The painted smiley and bullet holes were _gone_ from the wall above the sofa.

“Oh, Good morning, dearie. I thought I heard you up; sleep well in your new place?” she set a plate of biscuits and a teapot down on the living room desk and folded her hands in front of her. “I do hope you’ll be unpacking a bit before your new flat-mate arrives, Sherlock, look at the mess you’ve made!” she tutted and made to go through a small box near her hip. Sherlock unfroze to look at her and listened a little more closely.

“I’m sorry, what?” _I’ve never been so confused in my life… She’s regressed in age and appearance, too_.

“Well, dear you said you met someone last night that would be coming to look at the place today? At the hospital?” she looked very confused for a moment and took a stack of books to the built-in shelves by the fireplace. “I’ll ready-up the spare bedroom today, if you’ll be _needing_ two bedrooms?” she asked, worming for details on her new lodger.

“Mrs. Hudson, what is the date today?” he asked, ignoring her question, fingers and thumb rubbing around his lips. His stomach was sinking rapidly, and he tried viciously to remember yesterday.

“Why, darling, it’s the twelfth of May!”

“No, no. The _year_?”

“Why, 2010!” Exasperated by the dumb questions of a man she took to be a genius, Mrs. Hudson watched in horror as Sherlock’s eyes blew wide and he sank slowly into the leather armchair that was (thankfully) right behind his knees.  He was completely lost.

“I…am completely lost. I need to make a call, please excuse me,” Sherlock said woodenly, taking out his now-ancient mobile and scrolling to _Never Answer Under Any Circumstances._

 

[oOo]

 

“Always charming of you to drop by, brother dear, but may I ask _why_? You look… _upset_.” Mycroft grimaced and leaned back in his seat, as if to get away that many more inches from a festering amount of emotion. “Why ever come to _me_ then?”

Sherlock sat opposite his brother at the Diogenes, between bouts of feverish pacing. He kept opening and then closing his mouth, and was clearly trying to test reason with what he was seeing before him.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said fervently. The man so called looked at him, wild-eyed and half-afraid. This made Mycroft pitch forward in his seat again, looking closer. “What are you on?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” came the fervent reply, with a clench of the hand. Mycroft looked at him as though to scream _oh, right, I believe you._ Sherlock had the decorum to wince at the shouted thought, but fired back, “Oh, Christ, you can test me, but I swear to you I have not had _an-y-thing in weeks_!” His hands were in his hair and he was up and pacing again before the sentence was half-finished.

“Well then, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

“You won’t believe me. You’ll lock me up.”  Sherlock crossed his arms tight to himself and glared at the painting of the Queen hanging over his brother’s shoulder.

“I haven’t _yet_ ,” he replied, which earned him an arch look from his younger brother. “Well, not _really_. Rehab is different.” The elder Holmes settled back into his chair, reasonably assured his little brother wasn’t already breaking his tenuous clean streak. “Try me.”

“Okay. _Fine_.” Sherlock sat and crossed his legs. His fingers were jumping on the arm of the chair. “What is the date, today?”

Mycroft huffed and rolled his eyes. “The twelfth of May, two thousand-ten. Why?”

“Because yesterday to me was the _18th of September, 2014_.” Sherlock waited, tense, to be berated with laughter or interrogation. He got neither for several minutes; it seemed as if Mycroft had temporarily frozen.

“I’m sorry, you said you were clean, Sherlock. Do you really expect me to believe that you—what? _Travelled in time_?”

“I told you you wouldn’t believe me. See? I have to figure this out, good day,” and with that, Sherlock was up and out the door before Mycroft could half-stand to call after him.  

 

[oOo]

 

It was barely ten in the morning; John wasn’t due to arrive at Baker Street _(if this was indeed the day after they had met, the day he was supposed to move in_ ) until seven. He had theories to test.

First, back to Baker Street, where the detective went through the morning paper. It read at the top, bold and clear, 12 May, 2010.  Huffing in frustration, he went to the major news sections and found what he’d hoped he wouldn’t: an article on the serial suicides.

Mycroft and Hudders were telling the truth.

Ok, great. So, two of the people he relied on weren’t lying to him, taking the piss. Now what? How the hell did he even get here? And why? Why this day?

The last thing the detective could remember was opening that stupid little match box. The French decathlete, dead, surrounded by 1,812 empty matchboxes and one with the light inside. But he’d opened it a dozen times at the crime scene, and walking around town thinking, and nothing had happened, until—

Until he’d opened it for John, back at the flat!

That had to be something. But what? What would John have to do with it?

_Surely I have not been sent here by “The Universe” to make amends, or to follow through on my initial pining for the man? What tripe._

With a huff, Sherlock plopped down onto the sofa to brood. He was about five good minutes in when a thought occurred to him: he needed to go to the morgue.

 

[oOo]

 

Sherlock made his rounds, visiting Molly, Lestrade, and a few members of his Homeless Network. Everyone looked at him like he was the insane and either asked for his help (Lestrade) or shooed him out of the way (Molly). Or asked him for “coffee money.”

Everyone was four years younger. Every paper blared the time-change to him. It was like he was in a bubble, and everyone and everything was going on exactly as it had the day he’d met John.

Now the question was: why was he back in time? To accomplish some end? To fix something he’d done wrong? What on earth could be fixed, this far back? He wasn’t’ going to jump for years yet.  That being the most significant “game changer” in his short history with his best friend. He couldn’t imagine what else he was meant to accomplish.

After all, it’s not like he deserved to go after what he truly wanted. He wasn’t designed to be _happy_.  There was no way “the universe” sent him back here to try with John again, to give him a second chance at something he’d fucked up from the beginning.

He has some planning to do, before John arrives. Looking at his mobile, he sees it’s just after four. He elects to go to St. Regent’s Park, close to the flat, and think among the swirl of people there.

Plopping onto a bench, Sherlock decides that he needs to play this cool. If he’s truly in the past, then everything should act out exactly as he can remember it. He will do his utmost to act exactly how he remembers, and see what happens at the end of the day.

After a few more hours of pondering, wracking his brain for snapshots and clips of what occurred the day John moved in, Sherlock was ready to face the man himself. He got up and hailed a cab, as he’d arrived in a cab that very day, so long ago.

“221 Baker Street, please,” he said to the cabbie, leaning back in his seat and puffing out the stress and curiosity that had lodged itself, hard as stone, somewhere between his lungs and stomach. He was still filled with so many questions, and very few answers. He was definitely alive; he’d tested his heart and brain functions on some fun equipment when Molly had left the room, and cut open his thumb to check his blood’s viability, even a urine test to check that he was indeed sober. All normal, all useless.

Lestrade was blowing up his phone, but he ignored it. Now he could have the case solved in a matter of an hour.

But _should he_? Would it mess everything up? Was it not better to act as though this was truly a control test? Should he do everything according to history, or should he play it by ear, solve things quicker, and save a few people from death? If he was stuck in this whole new timeline, he could save a few lives with easy intervention.

How could he play with someone’s life for the sake of an experiment in his own timeline?

Could he?

The cab slowed to a halt, and Sherlock saw John hobbling up the sidewalk, approaching the door. He knocked as Sherlock exited the cab, paying the man and thanking him.

“Hello,” he called to John, who stumbled his way back down the steps to greet him.

He tried his best to exchange pleasantries as he went and knocked for Mrs. Hudson to come let them in, and luckily she was quick and true-to-form, bustling John up and into the foyer. Rather than leaving John worried about shuffling up the stairs slowly and in front, he bounded up and chose to wait before opening the door to the living space, same as before.

Perhaps this time he was just letting himself, perhaps he was just more on-edge, but Sherlock began noticing the changes in his friend from last-night/four years in the future, and right now.

His face was much less lined with worry and sorrow, his eyes less clouded from the same. He was thinner, still muscled from active duty but slightly atrophied from his long stay in hospital. John favored his shoulder still, swinging his arm forward but not behind him as he walked. He was so much more closed-off, facially. His body language was defensive, but curious about Sherlock and the flat.

In short, he acted as though they’d never met before this arrangement, while Sherlock had years of pent-up want and frustration pouring out of him.

He reigned it in and went through the script.

“Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed.” John peers around the room and smiles.

“Yes. Yes I think so. My thoughts precisely. So I went ahead and moved in,” he says without pause, testing the waters. John’s eyes read _understanding_ as he looks back to the boxes around them and he smiles thinly again.

“There’s a second room upstairs,” he cautions, taking Mrs. Hudson’s line before she comes into the room. John nods and looks sideways at him, quirking an awkward smile.

“Yeah, I’ll need that,” he says, quietly, eyeing the red chair.

Sherlock goes back to the script when Hudders comes in, braying about Mrs. Turner’s “married ones” and tidying the kitchen. He questions john about his own website, preening and then frowning at the answers in turn, taking his cues. Mrs. H brings up the serial suicides, and Sherlock remembers.

“Four,” he goes to look out the window, just as Lestrade pulls in and comes bounding up the stairs. “Where?” he asks the winded DI. The case is exchanged, John is intrigued, and Sherlock baits him into coming along, same as he had before.

They crawl into a cab and Sherlock fires off his round of texts before turning to John. “Okay, you’ve got questions.” _Join the club_ , the thinks.

It ruffles his feathers anew when John asks about his deductions, how he reads the young doctor. And everyone else. Despite himself, Sherlock can feel his blood thrumming as he reiterates to John how he could tell about his military service, Harry, and his financial crisis all from his body language and mobile phone. When John says “brilliant,” it’s just like the first time. It takes his breath away, and Sherlock suddenly can barely stand not knowing what’s happening to him. He feels like he’s being tortured, having to watch this reenactment, whatever it is.

If it’s a drug-induced coma or hallucination, it is very, _very_ in-depth. He’s _never_ been this high in his life, and that’s saying something, given the number of overdoses he’s sustained.

“That’s not what people usually say, he whispers, still amazed that John was so immediately attracted to him. And vice-versa.

“What do people normally say?” John asks with a smile, looking up at him with round eyes.

“Piss off!” John laughs and turns to the window, ready for an adventure. Sherlock will be sure not to disappoint; after all, this is the case that seals it for him. It needs to happen according to plan. John failing to come home with him is unthinkable.

They go to Lauriston Gardens, Sherlock does his scene with Sally and Anderson, making John peer at Sally’s knees, and within ten minutes he’s rushing back down the stairs, this time, though, he waits for John to climb in the cab with him.  Which means staving off his abduction by Mycroft for a few hours.

An hour’s worth of fetching the pink suitcase and fake pacing (he’s thinking hard about the next step- going to Angelo’s or not, a game-changer) and they’re bundled up and walking to Northumberland street for Sherlock’s original ruse of a stake-out. He’s texted Jennifer Wilson’s phone and they’re going to wait for the Jeff Hope to show up. Sherlock is still heavily debating whether or not to immediately call Lestrade and solve the thing, or whether it’s better to get the proof he needs and then have John shoot him, sealing their friendship fully.

He supposes that waiting for John to take the shot is the best option. After all, it did wonderful things for his libido at the time, and remembering it is not nearly as powerful.

They’re waved into the window seat inside Angelo’s when the moment begins. John is looking over the menu when Angelo arrives.

“Whatever you want on the menu, free of charge. For you, and your date,” the owner says to Sherlock. John opens his mouth to refute, but the words die on his lips as Sherlock speaks up.

“A bit too soon to jump to conclusions, Angelo. But thank you. A bottle of red and a candle, please?” the detective works the Belstaff off his arms and folds his long hands on the table, keeping his eyes on the street outside. John splutters momentarily, but doesn’t argue or complain.

 _Step one_.

“So, uhm. What are we doing?” John asks, eyeing Sherlock’s folded fingers and placing his own on his thighs.

“Stake-out. And eating, you might as well, it may be a long wait.” John’s eyes drift back to the menu as Angelo returns with his candle. The doctor swallows as he lights it and the wine is poured. Sherlock turns his attention up to the owner to thank him and goes back to nonchalantly watching the street, though his mind is replaying the script he’s washed over for years. Angelo takes John’s order and walks off, not waiting for Sherlock’s, which the detective can tell John finds odd. The feel of indigo eyes drifting back to his face is alluring, but he works to keep his own pale orbs trained on 22 Northumberland, and the cab that’s just pulled in.

“So, uh. You take clients, as well as the police work? Will there be…many visitors at the flat?” Sherlock quirks and eyebrow at the new line of questioning. He’s caused a rift in the script he knows, already.

Because he prevented Mycroft from kidnapping him in the street.

“Possibly; I don’t garner much attention at the moment from my current blog. Most of my work comes from the Met, and it’s not paid. Occasionally my politician brother sends me something, but not often enough.”

“Sorry, then how are you able to afford this Central London dig? I mean, even at a discount, and still needing a flat-mate, how do you… do you work, other than this?”

Sherlock smiles thinly. “I have a monitored trust fund. I have a…” should he tell him, this soon? Would it ruin everything? “rather light-sleeping drug habit. My brother has put a stop on my funds unless I keep clean. Thus, a flat-mate to help pay the bills.”

“And babysit?” John asks, leaning back in his seat. Sherlock grings his molars together and narrows his eyes on the street.

“Not a babysitter. Perhaps just a…distraction. Someone to keep my mind and body occupied.” Flirting is hard.

“Ah,” John quirks a smile. “So I’m gonna guess you’re between girlfriends?” he huffs a laugh. “That makes two of us, partnerless.”

Sherlock frowns. Here’s his line. “Certainly no girlfriends. But no boyfriend, right now, either.” John’s eyebrows both shoot up and he smiles. Sherlock makes an effort to smile back but he can feel how pained it is on his face. He’s still so unsure about all of this, the whole scenario terrifying him. Will he wake up on the same day? Or if he accomplishes his end, will he be free to go back to 2014? Is he stuck in this 2010 timeline, forever, forced to watch as John grows apart from him again and again?

“Fair enough. So, possibly clients, definitely this DI Lestrade. Any other random visitors?”

“Not as such. I’m not terribly…popular.”

“Hm.”

“What about from your end?” he asks, nearly ready to spring up and go to the cab, who’s been waiting several minutes now. John’s food arrives and he digs in, enthusiastically. Sherlock decides to let him eat, recalling how quickly John’s PTSD symptoms, including the unintentional (hopefully) starvation, had disappeared after he moved in. He squares his shoulders and turns to face John more, watching fat little raviolis disappear one by one.

“Nah. I’ve not got the courage or, what… _stamina_ , for a girl right now. Or… probably anything,” he adds quietly, between bites. Sherlock doesn’t let him chew thoughtfully, instead choosing to force his attention into more flirting.

“But you do swing both ways?” Sherlock blushes. He’s never been so bold in his life, but he’s also never gotten a firm answer out of John. He’d always just settled for noticing the dying claims of being “not gay” or “not his date.”

John huffs a laugh and then, drawing a blank on how to be offended at a question he both views as _private information_ and also patently _not offensive_ , he chews on his lip, wipes his mouth with his napkin, and nods. “Yeah, I suppose. Not always, though. Mostly women,” he adds, seemingly as an afterthought.

Sherlock can’t tell if he’s trying to let him down easy, or making up an excuse for himself. Or just letting his new flat-mate know he’s not a complete cock-slut.

Sherlock nods silently before inhaling sharply and getting up. “He’s there, come on!” whipping the Belstaff over his shoulders, the detective is out of the door before John can put down his fork and grab his own jacket. John runs after him, catching up quickly, and the cab takes off. Sherlock calls out to john and they go through the city, over buildings and down alleys until Sherlock manages to cut-off the cab and rips open the door, spitting deductions about the occupant before glancing in front at Jeff Hope and slamming the door.  

He lets John catch his breath for a second. “Wrong cab?” John huffs, leaning on the brick wall next to them.

_Tell him?_

“Wrong person we were talking to _in_ the cab. The driver.”

“ _What_?” John looks over his shoulder at the cab as they walk off. “You can’t know that… How?”

“Who else could pick up four unrelated, completely disconnected people, drive them to the middle of nowhere, and poison them? Who can travel, totally unseen and ignored, blend into a crowd _and_ hunt in it? It’s the perfect hunter.” John huffs, smiles broadly, and laughs aloud.

“So, what? You just…let him go? How do we…” he waves his hand after the cab, several yards away now, stopped by an actual officer. The American is out, talking to a bobby and pointing at them. John’s eyes go round, remembering the DI’s badge in Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock smiles, breathing in deep. “Got your breath back?” John nods, and they run back to Baker Street.

Once inside, Sherlock waits for John to close the door and collapse near him on the wall, throwing off their coats and catching their breath again. “That…was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” John pants, hand on his chest, grinning. Sherlock huffs.

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

John cracks up, pitching forward a bit. He looks up at Sherlock, comes forward, eyes full of intent, when Mrs. Hudson comes flying into the room from her kitchen.

“Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?!” She’s distraught, which makes John’s hackles rise. Christ he could scream right now; he’d forgotten about the drugs bust upstairs.

The rest of the night pans out exactly as it would have: he yells at Lestrade and Anderson, is picked up by Jeff Hope, and John shoots the man through two windows. He lies to Lestrade about the shooter, goes to John, and takes him home, telling Mrs. Hudson that John will indeed be moving in. Only this time, when they get upstairs, John makes the sudden realization that all of his stuff is back at his bedsit, and leaves again.

Sherlock flounces down on the sofa, frustrated in more ways than one. He recalls the blatant stares he’d gotten after they were back on the streets together, illuminated by flashing lights, before Mycroft stole the show and introduced himself to John.

With the doctor gone, Sherlock stews, ready for him to move in already. Has he sent them down a new path, one where they end up together, or has he driven the wedge between them already?

He shouldn’t have let John leave without kissing him. Of that he is certain.

The detective falls into fitful sleep on the sofa around four a.m., hoping for a better outcome in the light of day.

 

[oOo]

 

Sherlock has a headache and stiff neck, mouth full of cotton when he wakes up the next morning. He spreads a hand out and pats the pillow next to him, only to jolt awake. He’d been on the sofa the night before. But he’s decidedly in his bed now.

He rolls over and pats the mattress down, head throbbing, cracking his neck, and finds his mobile, pulling it off the charger cord and thumbing it on. The screen, to his horror, reads 12 May, 2010. 

He falls back onto his pillow, defeated. He has to do it all over again, and find out where he went wrong.

Today passes quicker than “yesterday,” though he stews over his life from two- days-slash- four- years- in- the- future-ago. Why does he _need_ anything different? Does he even _deserve_ anything more than what he had? John was by his side, even though not in his bed. Is that not enough?

He should never have asked for more. Because now he might have less, and it’s unthinkable.

Before he realizes it, he’s making tea and slowly putting together his lab equipment; putting away books, clothes and organizing his sock index. The living room slowly empties out, and becomes more like what it would be after John moves in tonight.

One thing is for certain, the flirting at the restaurant worked, but he _must_ let Mycroft abduct John. His loyalty turning to the detective so quickly is tantamount to him moving in faster, and agreeing to stay the night immediately instead of leaving at the last moment.

John was responsive to his advances, and had nearly kissed him.

He decides to test it tonight, being sure to flirt again at Angelo’s and perhaps be sure to make the first move. He’s going to sack up and kiss John tonight.

After all, f he’s stuck in a time-loop, due to wake up on this day forever, then what’s the harm? Whatever he undoes will just be wiped clean when he sleeps.

A sickening thought occurs to him as he empties another box of books onto a shelf and removes the Skull from its packaging. He places him up on the mantle and sinks a knife into the open space next to it.

What if he makes a defining move and then the time loop breaks, catapulting him into a life without John? Sherlock doesn’t think he can live through that. He _knows_ he’ll be back into the drugs within weeks, and probably dead within a few years, at most. It sounds dramatic, but Mycroft pushed him into rehab and then into a flatshare for a reason. He knows he can barely be trusted with his own life, something he has never viewed as particularly important, to anyone else or to him.

With a deep breath, Sherlock squares his shoulders and takes out his mobile, opening the messenger app and tapping out a text to Lestrade.

With the case wrapped up, he can focus on seducing John Watson.   

_Lauriston Gdns/ serial “suicide” killer is cabbie. Taxi #91197 Jeff Hope. –SH_

The reply is fairly quick:

**What? How do you even know about Lauriston gdns yet??** _**GL**_

And then:

**Can’t arrest a man with no evidence! _GL_**

_Pockets will contain two pill bottles, each with identical pills. He convinces you to take them with him, only his are not poisoned. You die. –SH_

_Get him before you let someone else be killed. –SH_

Dropping his mobile into his coat pocket, Sherlock exits Baker Street and climbs into a cab. His phone buzzes once more.

**Fine, we will bring him in, but you should come to Laur Gdns to view scene. Can’t use your testimony if you don’t even look at the body. _GL_**

_Will do. See you at 8pm, no sooner. –SH_

He doesn’t receive a reply, which is just fine with him. Sherlock spends his next few hours walking the river, ducking in and out of alleys, thinking. It’s like he’s in his own fucked up version of a film, he thinks. Forcing himself to find new ways to make John fall in love with him in only a few hours a day. To no avail; if the trend continues he will always wake up this day, never any later.

Will he age? Evidence points to the contrary…

What if he dies, will it break the loop?  Or reanimate him?

Who would even care, this early in the timeline? Certainly not John. Probably only his family.

The thought stops him dead in the middle of Trafalgar Square. Hundreds swarm around him, some pressing close, yet no one interferes. No one notices his presence, other than to push around him, a nuisance. He feels someone brush against him; he’s not an apparition at least. Or they aren’t.

This is ridiculous.

Shaking his head, Sherlock pops his collar and makes for Baker Street; it is 6:37. Instead of marking with tradition, he elects to duck down and into the Bakerloo line instead of hailing a cab.

From what he hears, they’re out to kill you anyway. 

 

[oOo]

 

John hobbles to the door, same as ever, and knocks. Sherlock advances from where he’s been lurking across the street for a couple minutes. 

“John,” he calls, advanceing. The doctor turns and smiles, limping back down the three stairs and coming to shake his hand.

“Mr. Holmes,” John says, hand extended.

“Sherlock please. Shall we?” instead of walking, Sherlock goes and unlocks the street door, surprising John. “I moved in last night. It’s rather nice,” he says, walking up the stairs calmly, letting John keep up.

He watches, rapt, at what has become commonplace: John looks about the place, Mrs. Hudson comes to greet him, and John sinks into the red chair, claiming it.

He receives a text:                                                                                                          **Need you here, now. Come get you? –GL**

Irritated, he hammers out:                          _Not in a panda. Will be in a cab shortly. –SH_

**Fine--GL**

****

“I’ve got a case to attend to. Care to join in? I’d love your…expertise?” John looks at him like he has no clue what Sherlock could be on about. “You saw a lot of violence; lot of violent deaths?”

“Oh, sure. Loads. Enough for a lifetime.” John flexes his fingers, staring Sherlock down.

“Care to see some more?”

“Absolutely,” he grabs up his cane and they’re out the door in a heartbeat, to the tune or Mrs. Hudson’s concerned rambling.

When they arrive, Sherlock makes John laugh aloud at his quips with Donovan and Anderson, cites the relevant parts of the evidence around Jennifer Wilson’s body (R-A-C-H-E, mud spatters, string of lovers, missing phone/suitcase). He says they’ll help find the case and leads John back to the perimeter of yellow tape, grinning.

“I have a few ideas about the suitcase. Join me?” He is tapping out a message to his brother, but Sherlock’s mind is on his next move with John.

_You’ll be abducting him soon, no doubt. Send two cars, cab fare is pricey, even on your card. –SH_

Mycroft doesn’t disappoint, sending a simple “will do” several minutes later (getting slow). While Sherlock is knee-deep in the third skip, a black town car aims it’s headlights into the end of their chosen alley and a woman gets out of the back, beckoning to John. Sherlock makes a scene for effect, allowing himself to be manhandled into a separate car by another minion.

John slides into his own town car, uneasy but compliant. Sherlock’s blood pressure goes up; he doesn’t want to lose another night, but feels helpless. He’s sure this is the right move. As he’s being driven, pink suitcase on the seat beside him, back to Baker Street, he calls the hapless Angelo, saying that he will likely be in with another in a few hours, and asks to reserve his usual table by the window for a sting operation and dinner. The Italian is joyous that Sherlock is bringing a date, and agrees, clearly shooing the host boy out of the way to mark the table reserved. The detective thanks him and rings off, chewing his lips.

Tonight, he’ll eat and be good conversation. If his “Universal Goal” here is to sway John in his favor, then tonight will be a definite stroke in the right direction.    

He digs through the suitcase, texts John to come, convenient or not (one of his more favorite compositions to the good doctor— _could be dangerous_ ) back to the flat, and then texts Lestrade, saying that he’s found the case but that her mobile phone is not in it. When the DI arrives, before they head to dinner, he’ll tell him about the tracker app, and that Rachel is the password.

He gets a text several minutes later from John:

 **on the way. one stop first –JW** Sherlock stares for several minutes at the letters there on his screen (how did he ever survive on an iPhone 4? So tiny). The lack of punctuation, the lowercase text. So John. A deep ache settles in his chest for his old life, warring with the heavy blanket trying to cover his nerves, saying that this is better because he has a second chance at a life with John, truly _with_ him. He thumbs his phone into sleep mode and pockets it, pacing the flat until Lestrade arrives and takes the suitcase.

No interruptions tonight!

“Rachel was her daughter, stillborn. It’s her email password, with which you can track her mobile phone via the tracker app. She planted it on the cabbie. Find him.” he pushes Greg out the door, still choking out questions, as John’s ride pulls up and deposits him on the kerb outside 221.

“Hey, figure it out already?” John seems winded, but eager. Sherlock can see the outline of his handgun in his waistline.

_Happy to see me?_

“Nearly, if these incompetent arseholes can handle the evidence I’ve blatantly handed them and arrest the right man. Hungry?”

John huffs a laugh and pats his belly. “Famished,” he sighs, looking up into Sherlock’s face with a thin smile.

“I know a place, good food. About a five minute walk?” John nods, and they head toward Northumberland Street, to Angelo’s.

John’s eyes blow wide when they enter and are immediately bustled into a booth with a _Reserved_ sign waiting on it. His awe only increases as the owner comes up and pours two glasses of red out in greeting.

 The huge Italian shakes Sherlock’s hand, very pleased. “Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you and for your date.” Sherlock’s eyes slide to John, who gives his by-now trademark thin smile and shakes his head once, dropping his eyes to the menu.

“Thank you, Angelo. A moment, please?”

“Ah, of course! I bring a candle, for the table.” He leans in close. “More romantic” a saucy wink, and the man is gone, John’s open-mouthed stare following him.

The detective shrugs out of his Belstaff and picks up his wine, smelling and then tasting it. It’s full and rich, but not too dry. He approves with a hum, prompting John to glance at his own glass, curious.

“People don’t have arch-enemies.” John starts, tasting his wine with false indifference. He also thinks it’s good, and places the glass back. Sherlock looks up.

“Hmm?”

“In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn’t happen.”

“Seems boring,” Sherlock drops his gaze back down to the menu. “However, you met my brother. _That_ …is who abducted you and separated us. As he will no doubt do from here forward, as often as possible. How much did he offer you?” he shoots John a winning grin and waits. John seems dazed for a moment, thinking. His mouth works around a few different questions before saying:

“I didn’t take it.”

“No, of course not. You have…integrity.” John shoots him a glare, but softens immediately after.

Angelo returns and takes their orders, leaving a small tealight on the table. John stares into it and pretends like he’s not furtively glancing at Sherlock under his lashes.

“So.” Sherlock sits back in his seat and decides to kick off this intuitive conversation himself, for once. “Are you single, like me?” John colours but nods, reaching for his wine.

“Yeah. No one seems to want this,” he nods toward his cane, leaning on the side of the booth nearby. “Two bachelors in a flat. Seems dangerous, indeed.”

“So, no girlfriends? Ladies of the night?” Sherlock bites his lips and waits.

“Nah, no. Ah-ha ha! No one for me, right now.” John takes a swig and sets the glass back, empty, pushing his shoulders into the back cushion of the booth in which they’re ensconced. “What about you?” Sweat-damp hands rubbing up his own thighs. “Any girls hanging around I should know about? You’re certainly a… better catch,” he comments with a half-shrug. Sherlock’s eyebrows creep up his forehead and he clears his throat.

“Ah, no. Girls aren’t really my…area.” There is a pregnant silence and John cottons on, a lightbulb flashing overhead.

“Oh. So, blokes then?” Sherlock wonders if John knows that he’s leaned a few inches closer, saying this.

“Preferably. There has been both, but I prefer…men.” Sherlock shifts a bit closer, himself. Their food arrives before John can comment further, and the thread is momentarily broken.

_Damn._

They eat quietly for several minutes. Sherlock frequently notices John eyeing him, chewing thoughtfully. He wonders, himself, what would happen if he simply edged John up to a wall in the flat and whispered “ _I want you_ ” in his ear. Would the timeline break? Would John punch him and run?

As ever, fear keeps his quiet, observant, instead of showing his hand.

“And what do you deduce about me? My… _orientation_?” John swallows a bite and scoops up his renewed wine glass, downing the last swirl of red. Sherlock’s eyes track him and pause.

“That it’s complicated. You like women, primarily, but some men aren’t off your radar. You’ve only had lesser intercourse with a few choice men, once in med school and a few times in the military.” John nods once at the end and goes back to his food, obviously thinking. When he speaks next, it makes Sherlock jump with its suddenness, breaking the silence.

“Look. I _need_ this flat. I don’t want to screw up my chances. But. Uhm…I do like you. Are you, uhm… _interested_?” John makes a complicated gesture at his general being and Sherlock cracks. He laughs aloud, eyes watering by the time he can catch his breath.

John looks sour, offended. Sherlock just manages to grab his wrist as he makes to get up and leave, tail between his legs.

“John, _John!_ Stop! I…you have _no_ idea. I’ve been onto you from the start. God, I do. I want you.” And there it is. The stress of the time-loop has broken over him like a wave, releasing into the wind. It’s out; he can relax, at least for a few hours. The closer he gets to midnight, to sleeping, the more he will worry. But for now, he has John, smiling back at him like he’s the sun itself. It is enough.

“Home?” John asks, meaning Baker Street. Sherlock’s never heard such a beautiful thing in his life.

John leaves his cane when they exit, limp temporarily cured.

 

[oOo]

 

The crackling electricity is palpable in the cab, and as soon as the street door closes behind John, Sherlock has his shoulders pressed into it with a rough shove.

“Christ!” John coughs, grinning. Sherlock lands on him, pressing in close, licking into his mouth with intent. John lets him have his tongue, groaning, fingers in black curls.

Sherlock is sucking over the length of John’s tongue, laving taste buds against each other in a tangle of friction, when he hears the beads from Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen doorway tinkling. His eyes open just as her door opens. She’s wondering what the sounds in the foyer are, not yet used to her eccentric new tenants.

“Oh, upstairs, you two!” she flicks a dish towel at Sherlock’s arse, giggling. “Oh, ’of _course_ we’ll be needing _two_ _bedrooms’_ as if I haven’t got eyes in my head! Dirty boys,” she watches them stumble upstairs, hiding half-hard erections in their coats, laughing.

Sherlock slams their door shut against her gentle teasing and crowds into John where the man stands in the middle of the living area.  Large hands surround the doctor’s face as Sherlock descends again, gentler this time, pushing plump lips against thin, wet skin sliding as lissome fingers work down John’s canvas jacket, pushing it down his shoulders and to the floor, his own following. John comes into his own then, planting his hands on Sherlock’s hips and driving them toward the sofa with intent. He lands hard on the detective, knocking the air out of them both. Hands descend on Sherlock’s front placket, tearing at buttons and cuffs until a shirt, belt, and shoes land hard on the floor. John’s own clothes aren’t far behind, before they’re eager and rutting, breathing hard in their pants.

Sherlock pants against John’s open mouth, hands drifting over all this skin that he’s suddenly _allowed to touch_ and kiss, and taste. It’s overwhelming, and he can barely keep it under control this need to consume, before it’s gone. A crack forms, a tight fissure in his chest opening up, and taking his breath away. 

John is catching his breath, hands roving up Sherlock’s long, bony sides, propping a lean thigh up next to his own hip, tracing the delicious length of it, as well as the curve at the end. He feels Sherlock’s chest tighten, and looks up, alarmed.

He’s ready to pull back, getting his knees under his weight, but Sherlock drags him down, chest-to-chest again.

“No, I… Sorry, it’s been a while. And I like you, so much.” Sherlock scrubs a hand over his face and cups John’s cheek gain, his free hand flattening over John’s lower back. They slow, lips sliding soft, wet and blood-warmed over each other. John’s breath catches when Sherlock bites down slightly to run his tongue over the swell of skin in his mouth. The hitch sounds like he’s hurt John, though the detective knows that couldn’t possibly be the case. Their adrenaline-fueled high has waned, allowing what was a few moments ago a rending, tearing force of lust and need to gentle into desire and touch and sensory enlightening.

Soon, fingers are all over once more, feeling, drifting. The need to touch, for both exploring and grounding, is overwhelming. Sherlock’s mind is fizzling with new information; he is both trying to enjoy and record everything. If this night ends, and he has to start all over again, he needs to know the exact way to get John to fall for him, every time.

If the cycle breaks and he never has this again, he needs to be able to visit it in his mind.

He is sure his heart will shatter irreparably if that were the case. He can’t go back from this.

Before he’s drawn back from his reverie, John has descended to his neck, licking over collar bones and into the steep hollows between. His small but perfect hands area wrapped around Sherlock’s ribs, thumbs pressing into the divots underneath, driving toward his sternum. As he tracks John’s movements with hazy logic, he remembers belatedly that he has no scars; the bullet hole from Mary is gone. In the same breath, John’s scar is now bare to him, as it has never been before. Ask John works his mouth lower, over his sternum, en route to his nipples, Sherlock lands his own fingers over that scar.

It’s raw and pink, still healing from the wound, just a few months old.   As he palpates it, John sinks his teeth over one areola, sucking and nipping sharply. Sherlock gasps, back arching, a smile stretching his face. John does the same to the other, shaking Sherlock’s fingers off his wound, hands drifting down, distracting.

“What are you up for?” John breathes against plush lips, tongue snaking between then, delving. Sherlock’s eyes roll back, he’s sure his entire body is limp under John’s roving fingers, seeking more and more soft, silky flesh.

“Sherlock,” he prompts, huffing a laugh.

“God, anything. Bedroom, though,” Sherlock breathes back, tongue loose and body quickly catching up to John’s level of interest. He notices how hard they both are, pressing into the other’s hip, throbbing. “You, in me.” He lets that sink in, listens for John’s breath to hitch. Soon those tearing fingers are back, pulling him up and to his feet, pushing them both toward Sherlock’s bedroom.

They crash through the door and onto the bed with enough force to require Mrs. Hudson to bang on her ceiling with a broom handle. Laughing, fingers digging and dragging, they throw their pants to the floor and crawl around until comfortable. Sherlock kneels, long legs splayed wide, over John’s prone form. Their erections line up, beautifully complementary. Sherlock’s long and slender, cut and sleek. John’s is a fair bit shorter, but fat and veiny, the foreskin cupping tight over the glans. Sherlock’s mouth waters, looking at it, and he swipes a thumb through the fluid there, bringing it up to his mouth before John can refuse.

They’ve not been tested; Sherlock knows he’s clean, but, to be honest with himself, he doesn’t know the state John came to him in. John’s hand comes up to swat his hand away from his mouth, but Sherlock tastes first, letting the slick, briny fluid slide over his tongue slowly.

As if in retribution, John’s hands come down to cup and squeeze over his arse, kneading rough and slow. It’s hypnotic, with how Sherlock’s got their cocks mashed together in his large fist. He thrusts in time to John’s kneading, but stops short before they’re even close.

“I want to ride you, John. Please.” He waggles an eyebrow at the bedside table, which John opens and digs through. He finds a thick dildo with a suction cup, which he huffs a laugh at, along with condoms and “Fancy lube?” he asks aloud, giggling as he rights himself, staring at the pump bottle with a pink label and curly writing.

“It’s good!” Sherlock can’t even falsify his indignance; he’s giggling as well. John deftly slicks up two fingers and, recalling the heft of that toy in the drawer, slides two against the detective’s perineum and into his hole, letting him adjust with a sharp gasp.

Sherlock opens quickly, eager and ready. Soon he swats John’s hands away, rolling a condom down John’s fat erection and lining up. He sits down and back slowly, opening with gripping tightness around John, driving himself down, breathless and overjoyed.

It feels…it feels….

It feels like nothing else, because it’s _everything_.

John is tugging at him, kissing what skin he can and muttering deranged, depraved things about Sherlock’s tight, overheated insides. Sherlock comes hard, shaking and exuberant over John’s chest, triggering the doctor’s own when the milking, clenching fist of muscles kneads over his length, buried deep. They hold still for several minutes, shuddering breath and muscles calming until it becomes uncomfortable. Sherlock slides off, tugging at and tying the condom.

John falls asleep curled around Sherlock’s back, in tight, arms wrapped around snug. No room for escape.

Would Sherlock wake if his body were moved?

Will he wake up alone, ready to try again tomorrow?

Will he wake up back in 2014, alone and depressed? Seeking drugs as an antidote to his own poisonous mind?

Despite trying to keep his eyes open, focusing on the skin surrounding him, John’s breath and his own thoughts and a heart so full of love and joy and fear, the opiate of oxytocin and vasopressin drags him down into the land of sleep.

 

[oOo]

 

Sherlock wakes slow, warm and comfortable. It’s the first morning in three that he doesn’t have a splitting headache when he cracks his eyes open, though he is uncomfortably sweaty.

John!

Rolling over (difficult; tight space, John’s arms) is its own treat. He feels the sticky drag of John’s spooling morning erection on his arse-hip-own morning wood. The tacky- dried come from last night peels away from them both when he draws forward to turn, waking John with a start.

He’s here.

He’s _here!_

The time didn’t change; he did whatever the Universe wanted. Right?

Fear dissipates as inky blue meets icy grey. A smile spreads over John’s pillow-lined face as he stretches into a yawn, scratching at his dried-come chest hair. He pulls a face and leans back, still grinning.

“Hey,” he breathes, angling his chin down to not blow morning breath into Sherlock’s face.

The detective couldn’t care less. He lunges forward, claiming John’s mouth with his own, rolling on top, legs tangling. John. Bless him, laughs into the kiss, fingers carding though sleep-tousled curls. Sherlock is resplendent in the morning, rough and eager. Bright. Boyish.

“You’re here,” Sherlock murmurs, lips grabbing at John’s own, coaxing out his tongue so the detective can suckle at it.

“Of course, Sherlock. Of course. I’ll take the flat-share, by the way,” they laugh, fingers clinging, chests flattened together. “But, uh, maybe a shower first, yeah?” Sherlock nods, scenting along his jaw. Musky. “Join me?”

**Author's Note:**

> i know, i know. "But what about George?!" i'll finish with her, i promise. i just started about literally 5 stories this week, almost all 1-shots.   
> sorry i suck.   
> hope you enjoyed, leave comments/kudos, please!


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